


April Fools' Games

by DixieDale



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-21 20:22:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18146990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: A proper April Fools Day required certain basic elements.  That it be April 1st, of course.  It required mischief-makers - those willing to play a few games and pranks.  And it required a few 'fools' to be the butt of those games and pranks.  Stalag 13 had all that covered, in spades.





	April Fools' Games

Some days Hogan felt they just didn't pay him enough. Agreeing to let himself get shot down and captured by the enemy. Being stuck in a prisoner of war camp, with all the hardships involved. Sorting through the miscellaney of men interned here, trying to find those who had the intelligence, the skills, the fire, the guts to do the job the Allies needed done. Having to get Klink on a string and keep him there.

Well, for all that, maybe his pay grade DID cover it, along with all he'd been promised after this was all over, but for the rest of the shit? Dealing with the oddball sense of humor some of his crew seemed to possess, at least when it wasn't in support of the mission? Dealing with their various shortcomings and quirks (and, despite their intelligence, skills, fire, etc. they had a multitude of shortcomings and quirks!). Having to deal with the minutiae that just slowed down the mission, limited the scope of his genius? NO! For all that he deserved a bonus!

Especially for this latest little addition to his responsibilities - Private Joey Sanders, U.S. Army, who was now a prisoner at Stalag 13. God Help Them All!

  
**The Fool:**

Private Joey Sanders - captured six months ago, he'd been transferred to Stalag 13 at the request of the Kommandant at Stalag 7 on the grounds that he had enough fools to worry with among his own guards, he didn't need a prisoner of like mentality adding to the confusion.

It was perhaps adding insult to injury for the Kommandant to turn to his Aide after that call and laugh, saying "though from what I've heard about Colonel Klink and his operation, this prisoner should fit right in!"

General Burkhalter, putting down the phone and reaching out for a pen to turn that request into a written order, was thinking pretty much the same thing, was finding it rather amusing himself.

Sanders was an unimpressive man on the whole, Hogan had to admit as he was introduced to the new man under his command. He was used to evaluating the new prisoners, was keenly adept at spotting whether an arrogant attitude denoted a bully he'd need to keep in line or a frightened man trying to show that he wasn't a ready victim. He was quick to spot that flicker that meant the man could understand the rapidfire German being spoken by his captors even as he pretended not to.

Hogan could often pick out those who just might have the potential to be valuable to his operation, just from that initial evaluation. It didn't happen that fast all the time, but sometimes? Yeah, so, he'd been wrong a time or two, underestimated a guy; hell, Carter was a case in point. Even the rest of the command team had successfully hidden some of their talents, their 'light' if you will, under a basket for awhile, until they'd come to trust him more.

But not this time, not with Sanders. With Sanders there was no light to be hidden, there was no doubt in Hogan's mind. This was one of those who'd have to be managed and protected, as he tried to do for all the prisoners, but never one he would consider bringing into the inner circle. The man just didn't have any traits that would prove of use, unless they were looking for a total stooge, and even THAT usually took SOME level of intellect, like with Schultz. And this guy? He made Schultz look like a rocket scientist by comparison!

Partly of that first impression might have been influenced by Sanders' physical makeup, the sharply pointed nose, seemingly with a constant nervous twitch, cloudy-brown rather vague eyes, set a little farther apart than seemed just right, enlarged by those thick lenses in the wire frames, along with a chin that almost didn't exist at all, just sloped abruptly back from his mouth to his scrawny neck.

Partly, though, was the apparent lack of intelligence, the lack of comprehension in the way he went about things, even to filling out the required forms or answering those initial questions presented by Hogan or the Kommandant. The worried frown, the intense determination on Sander's face to do the right thing (if he could just figure out what that was), the overly-long hesitation over the first line of the initial form was a good indication of what lay ahead.

"Well, my father called me Scooter, my grandma still calls me Josephus, but most call me Joey, though my cousin Mike calls me Jo-Jo. What should I put down, sir?" looking at Colonel Hogan with trusting eyes.

Klink's mouth had dropped, and Hogan had heaved a quiet sigh, thinking about the rest of the three page form.

"Just put down what the Army calls you, okay, Private?"

The sigh had deepened when Hogan himself, reading over Sanders' shoulder, had stepped in to scratch out 'Doofus' (printed in big, if awkward, block printing), and replace it with a firmly printed 'Josephus' on the space labeled 'First Name'. It was possibly the longest orientation either officer had ever been involved with.

  
In fact, the general consensus was, after he'd only been there a couple of days, in a contest of wits between Sanders and young Zelig, the new dog Oscar Schnitzer had palmed off on Klink, Zelig would have won by a country mile.

Per Oscar Schnitzer, expert dog handler, "what else was I to do, Colonel Hogan? She is a sweet dog, but too thick in the head to be a working dog. So, she cannot figure out the difference between 'sit', 'stay', or 'lay down'; but at least here you will be nice to her, she will get fed, and I won't keep waking up to her trying to crawl into bed with me, us. My Trudi, she says Zelig has a 'fixation' on me, whatever that means. And no, I do not WANT to know what it means, I just know that Trudi says she does not want the competition!"

Hogan tried to put that entire discussion out of his mind; it was just too disturbing, especially considering the way Zelig's big brown eyes now seemed to follow HIM wherever he went.

The guys in camp pretty much took turns trying to keep Sanders out of trouble, since the ones in his own barracks were firmly of the opinion that it would take more than just six guys to get that job done. Accordingly, Sanders spent a lot of time being passed around from one barracks to another, Barracks 2 included, at least during the daylight hours before final roll call. He sort of became the camp mascot, though Hogan discouraged anyone from actually calling him that.

Sanders wasn't a raw boy, either; he had to be close to thirty, maybe even older, a little old to be a private. Well, that was the draft for you! The wonder among Hogan's command team wasn't why Sanders was still a private, though, it was how he'd ever found his way into the military in the first place.

"Do you not find it worrisome that he is even IN your military, mon colonel?" LeBeau asked as he stirred the pot of soup on the stove.

"Yeah, colonel, 'e's got a valid point. I mean, I thought they were really pushing things taking Carter 'ere, but this Sanders, 'e really takes the cake," Newkirk drawled around the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, dealing out another rounds of cards, lashes slightly lowered over his blue-green eyes, making a point of NOT looking at the young man, one of his two closest friends, the man he'd just deliberately insulted.

Carter frowned, both at the Englishman and at the hand he'd just been dealt. "Hey, I resent that, Newkirk! Oh, and that's gin, for your information," slapping his cards down on the table with a smug expression.

"Bloody 'ell, 'ow does 'e DO that??!" Newkirk groused, throwing down his cards in sheer annoyance. He was the dealer; that just shouldn't have happened!

"Well, my grandfather, who was a real smart guy, you know, being a medicine man and all, would say that, though you THINK you want to win, in your heart you really want ME to win, so you figure out a way, subconsciously, you know, to deal me the right cards at the right time. Of course, that pre-supposes that you're cheating in the first place, and KNOW what cards you're dealing out, which is a pretty good pre-supposition, considering it's you. So, anyway, your mind decides if you subconsciously pick cards for me that end up making you lose, technically anyway, considering I'd then be winning, IT figures it's all the same, see?"

"Andrew, shut up and get in your bunk!" Newkirk fumed, ignoring the smirk on the younger man's face, and the grins on everyone else's, as his irate instruction was utterly disregarded by the man now gleefully raking in those matchsticks.

That whole monologue made him shudder. He had more than enough to worry him with his conscious mind and the things it got him into; the thought that his subconscious was taking an active role was just scary. Who knows what was hiding down there???! He tucked things down there for a reason, after all!!!

  
Of course, they all pretty much agreed with LeBeau about Sanders. The man seemed to be only about a fifth as bright as Klink usually appeared on his very best days, which wasn't saying a hell of a lot. His file, accessed by some smooth manipulation in Klink's office, confirmed it - this guy was too dumb to come in out of the rain, would probably stand in a downpour, staring upwards with his mouth open and drown unless someone took pity and yanked him back inside.

"Like they say turkeys do, but turkeys don't really do that, it's just that they get, well, mentally stuck sometimes, and stare at stuff for a real long time, so if they're looking at something in the sky and it's raining, well, people start thinking about what could happen, and . . . ". Carter expounded.

"You mean like you get stuck talking in a circle sometimes, Andrew?" Newkirk snarked.

"Huh?" Andrew asked, making sure to give Peter his most innocent look of bewilderment. He got the expected response, that exasperated roll of the eyes from his best friend, the amused grins from the rest of the guys. Well, he was pretty much grinning too, only just on the inside, not where anyone could see. {"Peter is just so easy to bait!"}

Hogan and his crew could only confirm that analysis after Sanders tripped over absolutely nothing and fell into the stove in Barracks 2, knocking it loose above and below, bolts tearing away from the floor below leaving jagged splinters, live cinders everywhere, black dust from the pipes filling the air. Scotty Wilson, medic, listening to the story as he patched up the hapless Sanders, had a feeling he'd be seeing a lot of this guy.

Hogan had just shaken his head and told Newkirk, "good thing that's NOT where we put the entrance to the tunnel!"

"Wouldn't a done that, gov. First place the bloody krauts look; totally 'last war', you know?"

An incident with the water barrel hadn't impressed anyone either, though at least there had been no injuries that time, and the floorboards were in need of a good wash-down anyway. Quick action with the mops prevented too much water from sinking through the floorboards into the tunnel below, and some quick broom work erased any residual traces of the flow patterns.

"Blimey, Andrew, the bloke's got more left feet than YOU do!" Newkirk groused as he helped pick up the scattered contents from Kinch's footlocker that Sanders had managed to tumble over and flip upside down. Newkirk's footlocker, weighted down with various contraband, had been harder to dislodge when Sanders fell into IT a few days ago, but then he had it braced pretty well anyway, with small screws drilled into the floorboards at each corner. Just as well; even Sanders might have wondered about some of the odd stuff in there. Kinch, only having his few personal effects inside, well, his footlocker didn't fare so well, but there wasn't anything odd in there either.

"Well, gee, you always tell me I got two left feet, I don't see how he could have MORE than me, Newkirk! That'd mean he had three legs or something, wouldn't it, and I don't really see how . . . Ouch! That's not very nice!" rubbing the back of his head where Newkirk had just given him a solid thump while executing a pretty solid eye-roll of his own.

  
Sanders, originally placed in Barracks 6, at least for roll call and sleeping purposes, had ended up in Barracks 2 after a series of awkward incidents over at 6. Well, that, and Klink had gotten over his 'overwhelming and never-ending gratitude' to Hogan and his men for helping him at that conference for 'the best of the best', and was now in a pout over his car being out of commission for longer than he'd been promised. Somehow, Sanders ending up with Hogan (or vice versa) just seemed a fitting punishment for BOTH men after Klink had a couple of run-in's with the private. Literally, run-ins.

First time Sanders stumbled into the Kommandant while carrying a bucket of water - no, no one had ordered him to be carrying a bucket of water, and Sanders had just blinked, puzzled at the question when asked his purpose in doing so.

"I'm trying to keep in practice. I was in Khoury League back in St. Louis, you know. I started when I was six, worked my way up to Bantam, and I was so good there, they kept me in Bantam the whole time instead of making me move on like the rest of the kids. In fact, most guys have to leave Khoury League after they're fourteen, maybe fifteen, but they let me stay all the way up to when I was drafted. I was their number one water boy, you know. I'm thinking of trying for the big leagues after the war; they have water boys too, I'll bet."

The doused Kommandant had not been particularly impressed by that enthusiastic explanation, even after Hogan had explained just what a Khoury League was. Hogan did spare a thought at how much Sanders' father might have had to donate to the Khoury League over all those years in exchange for their ongoing engagement with his son.

The second time around, Klink had been the one doing the carrying - two months of reports he'd finally, painfully, completed, only six weeks past due, headed for the car to deliver them personally to a fuming General Burkhalter. The abrupt impact with Sanders necessitating the prisoners and guards dashing here and there around the compound retrieving the flying pages. Sanders protested, "I just wanted to see if I could help; they looked kinda heavy for an old guy like that."

Klink hadn't been impressed with Sander's intentions, or that description, just as Burkhalter had not been overly impressed with the pile of dusty and crumpled pages deposited on his desk. In fact, General Burkhalter had made Klink firmly aware of his opinion.

Upon Klink's return to his own office, he'd called Sander's former jailer and requested the transfer be reversed, but to no avail.

"He's yours, Klink. I've served my sentence; it's your turn now." The men listening on the coffee pot heard about all the general confusion Sanders had managed to create at Stalag 7. If there was a note of amusement in the Kommandant's voice, well, it was understandable; at least Sanders was no longer HIS problem.

Kinch rolled his eyes, "no wonder the Kommandant there doesn't want him back; sounds like they're lucky the place is still standing, Colonel."

The mood went from slightly amused to dismay when an apologetic Sergeant Schultz had showed up shortly thereafter with Private Sanders along with his few belongings.

"The Kommandant says he is YOUR responsibility, Colonel Hogan, but he does not want him within ten feet of HIM or the office! Or the motor pool, or the tower, either," remembering what was said to have happened to those places while Sanders was in Stalag 7.

Now Hogan had to figure out how to continue his clandestine operations with the bundle of good-natured but bewildered confusion that was Joey Sanders now residing in the bunk closest to LeBeau. It was going to be challenging, to say the least, but at least they didn't have to worry about Sanders catching on.

"Oui, mon colonel. The only thing Sanders is likely to catch on, is himself and all of us on fire if he does not learn how to avoid the stove!" LeBeau exclaimed after yet another small incident involving what WOULD have been their dinner.

Hogan would have figured out a way to get him transferred out, but that would mean using some fancy footwork with Klink, especially with the frame of mind Klink was currently in, and with everything else going on, it didn't seem worth the trouble. Also, everyone agreed, it seemed kinda mean; Joey just didn't have all that much in survival skills. He certainly had a better chance of making it through the war in Stalag 13 than anywhere else. So they got used to having him around, didn't spare much time worrying about him and his dunderheaded moves, perhaps got a little careless in their talk, in their own moves.

That was possibly a mistake.

 

**Game Changer:**

The nasty incident at Stalag 13 involving Gestapo Major Wolfgang Hochstetter, General Burkhalter, Sergeant Carter and Corporal Newkirk had resulted in a slap on the wrist for the major, nothing too meaningful, but one he resented greatly. He resented General Burkhalter, he resented Sergeant Andrew Carter, and most of all Corporal Peter Newkirk, the latter with a resentment close even to the resentment he bore for Colonel Hogan. Something about the Englishman's attitude just infuriated him. (Of course, he wouldn't have been the first to feel that way; in fact, he was only the last in a very long line of like-minded individuals. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, he wouldn't be the last with that mind-set either.)

Even more he resented that he had been ordered to stay away from Stalag 13, to enter into no more overt actions at this time, a piece of information that had infuriated him, but had been heard and welcomed by various others - gleefully by a smug Kommandant Klink, thankfully by Sergeant Schultz and Corporal Langenscheidt, and warily by Colonel Hogan and his men. General Burkhalter had welcomed the news, but had been highly doubtful of the effectiveness of the order. He would be keeping a watchful eye in that direction.

Still, it seemed to be holding, that order, with no sign from the Gestapo for a few weeks now. Little did they know that, while Major Hochstetter might have complied with the 'no overt actions' order, he had reassured himself with the knowledge that he had NOT been ordered to stay away from any 'covert activities'.

Surely his superiors had a REASON for that very obvious oversight! Perhaps they were even ENCOURAGING him to use other means, and he did have other means at his disposal - a master operative, known as 'der Wiesel'. And that operative was known for doing things in a very different, a very unpredictable way. No, he couldn't order der Wiesel to any particular action, the man didn't work that way, but he could put the problem in front of the operative and stand back and see what developed. Maybe a fresh eye, a new approach was just what was called for. A call to a friend of a friend had caused 'der Wiesel' to present himself on Major Hochstetter's doorstep on one fine evening.

It would appear Gerhard Schneider, aka 'der Wiesel', found the idea highly amusing as well as a welcome relief from the more intense duty he'd just come off. As he'd explained to Major Hochstetter over a glass of schnapps before starting this assignment, "Major, you specialize in tearing things apart physically, from the outside. I, on the other hand, specialize in finding the internal weak link, (and there is ALWAYS a weak link!), tearing things apart psychologically and emotionally, from the inside. If you do that, remove the foundation, the mortar, the very fiber that holds it all together, the outside falls apart on its own. When I am finished, all you will have to do is stretch out your hand, gather them in, and squeeze. No, do not worry about the details; I will handle all of that. In fact, I am rather looking forward to the experience; what do they say, 'a change is as good as a rest'? I will contact you when I need your assistance."

Der Wiesel had studied what information Hochstetter had on Stalag 13, the Kommandant and the guards, and particularly on Colonel Robert Hogan and the other prisoners. Especially the ones in Barracks 2. The term 'monkey business' came up more than once, and eventually a slow, sly smile came to Der Wiesel's face. He took another look at the calendar and the smile increased. Yes, that just might be the hook he needed. A few phone calls, some orders, some favors called in, and he was ready for the games to begin.

  
**The Games Begin:**

April Fools Day was something most of those at Stalag 13 had in common, it being a tradition in most Western countries, including Germany, for a very long time. And as long as things were kept under control, Hogan figured it was a good way for the men to let off a little steam.

In fact, it was something they and the guards had in common, since a few of THEM joined in as well, though the lines were pretty well kept, guards pranking their own, and the prisoners likewise. Klink rarely knew about most of the shenanigans, everyone thinking that best, and although Schultz would have preferred everyone just overlooked the opportunity for additional monkey business {"ach du lieber, we do not already have more than enough already??!"}, he didn't do much except try to keep things peaceful and sweep up the breakage.

Hogan watched from his position of authority, too senior to get involved. Kinch was too dignified, or so it would appear. Newkirk had been banned totally, with a unanimous vote (prisoners AND guards!) on the basis that HE got up to enough nonsense the rest of the year, and as a master of mischief and mayhem, he'd have an unfair advantage. HE called it blatantly unfair discrimination, but settled back to judge the pranks being played by others based on effectiveness, ingenuity, level of grossness, or sheer outrageousness.

This year the Englishman was going to have to come up with a new category, one he tentatively called "w'at the bloody 'ell were you thinking???!!" Actually, someone should have come up with that category before; a lot of what Newkirk got up to would fall into that category, after all.

So, Newkirk set up the scoreboards, waiting for the fun to begin. Some jokes or pranks fell flat, which was only to be expected considering the different backgrounds of the men involved. What was a real yuck in Billings, Montana didn't really translate to Park Avenue, New York City, New York, and what the French thought were hilarious jokes were just stared at blankly by the Brits. Those didn't make it to the board at all, though there was a solid contingent who petitioned they should be included under a category of "most clueless". Newkirk argued in return that he didn't have a board that big!

Some of the others were mildly amusing, some fall-over-with-laughter grade, and everywhere in between; any that didn't totally bomb got entered into the contest.

Of course, Newkirk only judged the prisoners' pranks; Langenscheidt judged the ones played by the Germans. However, they DID confer frequently, liking another opinion in the more troublesome calls. After all, they considered themselves the two most qualified for their own side, Newkirk having the experience, Langenscheidt having the imagination. For supposedly being enemies, the two men had almost frighteningly similar thought patterns at times, about certain subjects. (Olsen and Carter would have a few serious discussions about that in the coming years.)

And some of the pranks? Troublesome some of them truly were, if not in the judging, then the pranks themselves. Oh, it started slow, nothing out of hand, but that soon changed. Those improvised jack-in-the-boxes that started appearing were the first sign that one of the pranksters had gone a little too far.

The one in the Guards' Mess, the one encased in that bag of sawdust-laden flour (or flour-sprinkled sawdust, whichever way you wanted to describe it), that had deeply pissed off the Mess cook, certainly; and the one in the incoming mail pouch had Schultz scattering mail hither and yon. They had been funny, of course, at some level, but both of those came close to crossing a line, food and mail not really being something to be tampered with.

The one in Klink's cigar box? The one that exploded in a shower of tobacco, sparks, and clay pellets? That, everyone agreed, had been ill-advised. Luckily it had been Schultz trying to sneak a cigar while Klink was gone; if it had been Klink getting caught in the explosion, it would have been much more unpleasant. They managed to get the mess cleaned up by the time Klink got back, but the box itself had developed a slight permanent tilt and Hogan had had to raid his own stash to replace the missing and/or mutilated cigars. Wilson had seen to the repairs needed to Sergeant Schultz. Olsen had admitted to the first, arguing the flour had so high a ratio of sawdust that it didn't really count as food, but denied all knowledge of the last two incidents.

Kinch and Joey Sanders each fell prey to orders supposedly from Colonel Hogan that led to Kinch wasting a considerable amount of time chasing his tail, and Sanders almost weeping in inarticulate frustration at not being able to understand the complicated orders in the first place. Scotty Wilson had been called to administer a dose of aspirin and a soothing talk to Sanders.

A similar set of orders had drawn LeBeau to a small storage shed where, once he stepped inside, the overhead support gave way, it and the items being stored above thudding down on him and delivering a multitude of bruises; it was sheer luck that it hadn't been much worse.

Corporal Castle, in Barracks 3, laid claim to the first note, the one to Kinch, but again, disclaimed all knowledge of the prank that had gotten LeBeau hurt. As for the note to Sanders, Castle protested, "hey, I'm not some monster, you know! Poor guy has enough trouble figuring out what's what as it is! Geez, next you'll be accusing me of kicking puppies!" Scotty had confirmed no broken bones, obviously by the grace of LeBeau's guardian angel, but took care of the various other injuries, using some of Newkirk's bruise cream on the worst of the lot.

The two identical bottles of perfume that showed up on Hilda's desk an hour apart had been coo'd and wondered over by the pretty blonde secretary. The first had being sweet-smelling and highly-tempting, but the second one erupting in a foaming mess of burning, stinking liquid when she twisted the cap.

Well, NO ONE was happy about that. Hilda was a sweetie, along with being the only pretty girl most of the men got to catch a glimpse of every now and again, and everyone was pretty pissed off about the insult and the minor chemical burns she'd gotten in the process. Scotty Wilson was beginning to count the hours til this day was over.

Carter admitted to the first, "it didn't have anything to do with it being April 1st, I swear; she'd just mentioned she was out of perfume and she's been so nice and all, I figured I'd mix up something nice for HER. No, of course, I didn't put that second bottle there! Gee! Hilda's a nice girl, I wouldn't do anything like that!"

The fact that the two small bottles were exactly the same, though, that got him some skeptical looks. No, no one thought he'd TRIED to hurt Hilda, they just thought he'd gotten careless in what he'd intended to be a harmless prank. They didn't much appreciate his carelessness; he didn't much appreciate their distrust or their disbelief.

Newkirk, though, had given him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, "don't take much mind of them, Andrew. Once they think it through, they'll figure it out it wasn't you," though making up his mind to keep an eye out for anyone who might decide to teach Andrew a lesson over the matter. He might just be the scorekeeper, but that was something Newkirk wasn't going to stand by and see happen.

 

**Hey, Who Changed The Rules?**

Surprisingly, the same mixture of harmless, if not necessarily funny, and outright nasty pranks was showing up on the guards' side too, and everyone was starting to look at each other sideways.

And the notes didn't help. No, not the earlier ones to Kinch and Joey and LeBeau, but the newer ones. The ones that cast blame on various individuals for certain of the more nasty pranks, if you could even call them that. One even accused Joey of that exploding cigar box in Klink's office. And the notes were showing up on both sides as well, in a neat German script for the guards, in a tidy English print on the other. Some of the notes were sent to the victims and their friends, accusing a particular individual of being responsible; some notes were sent to others, accusing them of the pranks and threatening payback.

Soon the prisoners were snipping at each other, a pushing and shoving match occurred in the middle of Barracks 6, and Newkirk almost came to blows with Corporal Mellis over threats against Carter. On the other front, Schultz and Langenscheidt had their hands full as well, trying to keep the lid on tight.

Those two weren't any too happy either. Schultz had found his rifle dismantled and laying on his bed with a derogatory note about his capabilities and lack thereof and a working rifle being the LEAST of his needs. Langenscheidt, opening his notebook to work on his newest story, found all the pages covered with spilled ink. Since he'd already covered about fifty pages in the notebook, and since he considered it some of his best work so far, his reliably easy temper was rather frayed.

It didn't take long before Klink had a tantrum, possibly culminating from that string of phone calls, some with silly nursery rhymes, some with riddles and jokes, some with far too-knowing hints about his command. The exploding ink pen and the schnapps decanter liberally laced with cayenne pepper and turpentine had been the last straw. At a tense rollcall, he thundered and yelled and stamped his foot, threatening cooler time for the culprit or culprits.

For once, Hogan wasn't far behind, in fact, was in complete agreement; the missing brace boards in the middle of his bunk hadn't been a pleasant surprise when he'd stretched out for a nap. Not wanting anyone to see their commanding officer with his arse stuck like that, he hadn't called for help, but his mood was ominous as a result of the experience.

Coming in from roll call to find that little sign dangling from the bunk overhanging their entrance to the tunnel below, the sign that said "turn your head, open your eyes, press right here for a big surprise!", that was more than annoying, it was outright lunacy. He preached to the guys loud and clear; well, as loud as he let himself get considering how close the German guards might be.

"And what if Klink had walked in here before I saw that? Even Hochstetter could have shown up!! Don't you guys ever think???!!"

They were all loud in their denying of having any part in the prank, Joey looking even more confused than ever, him not having any idea what lay below the barracks floor, then actually getting scared at all the discord.

But Hogan remained skepical of their protestations of innocence, especially annoyed with all the antics when he was trying to put together two separate missions.

"Look guys, fun is fun, but I do NOT need Klink pissed off right now. So, cool it. It's done, it's over, anything else you have in the works, forget it! Anything already set up, get to it, dismantle it, now!"

He'd turned away from the still-protesting men and slammed into his office, leaving them glaring after him, then turning to complain to each other about not being believed.

Joey had turned frightened eyes to LeBeau and whispered, "why's the Colonel so mad? Did I do something wrong again? Should I go tell him I'm sorry? I will, if you tell me what I'm sorry for, LeBeau. I don't want the Colonel so mad."

LeBeau rolled his eyes, and reached up to pat the other man on his hunched shoulder. "No, Joey, it's alright. He probably just has a headache; he will feel better later. Don't worry about it," sending a worried look at that closed door. {"At least I HOPE he will feel better later; how could he think we would do something so stupid?"}

 

**A Peek At The Other Guy's Cards:**

Schultz had already delivered much the same speech to his men as Hogan had given, at least in general, though he wondered at their fervent denials, the growing accusations he was hearing that it must be the prisoners behind the nastier of the pranks Schultz was laying at their door. He knew his men and this didn't feel like them; the problem was, although monkey business was part and parcel to his other boys, it just didn't feel like them either. Either way, there was trouble brewing if the hard feelings got any worse.

Langenscheidt hadn't said a lot, but intended to go have a word with Newkirk. The guys got up to a lot of monkey business, yes, but it didn't usually result in a broken arm, like a certain young guard was now being treated for.

The arrival of a note for Schultz, taunting him, suggesting he would be better off devouring less apfel strudel and also would be wise not to underestimate "those you call insects", that "one day it is the insects who will devour you," seemed to implicate 'The Cockroach', as Schultz liked to call LeBeau, though that seemed out of character for the little Frenchman.

It was the notes for Langenscheidt that really got the Corporal's attention, though, made him sit back and rethink everything that had been happening. Then he knew he HAD to go talk to Newkirk.

"No, I talk to Sergeant Carter. It is best that way. Then HE can talk to Newkirk," he said to the open air, nodding his head resolutely as he grabbed his rifle and headed out the door of the guards' barracks. Schultz stared after him, puzzled, but decided to do his usual of saying nothing, doing nothing. Most of the time that worked quite well for him.

  
"So, as you and I know, the one note, at least, is a lie. There is no way HE would have done that to my stories. So, who WOULD have? And I do not believe LeBeau would have said that to Schultz. And the note also supposedly from LeBeau saying I was known to be the one who caused his accident because of last week, and that he and his friends would make me pay, they do not know me as well as they think, ya? Yes, I yelled at LeBeau last week, pushed him around, yes, for the trouble at the Kommandant's office, but he knew it was for show, because it was what Newkirk said was needed. But would everyone watching also understand that?? No, someone did NOT, and not just the Kommandant! Nor did they understand I would come to you or perhaps Newkirk."

Carter frowned from the bench where he'd been sitting, trying to think through the same problem. No, Olsen, the one who had been accused in that first note, would never have destroyed Langenscheidt's notebook; he knew how much Langenscheidt's writing meant to him; he'd never have done anything like that, though Carter was maybe the only person aside from those two to know just how close they really were.

And though LeBeau didn't like cooking for the Germans, even Schultz, he wasn't likely to be that open with his resentment, and he sure wasn't stupid enough to leave a silly note like that! He was pretty sure the little French chef would only be disgusted by that 'devoured by the insects' line.

And anyone who'd been here for very long would know Langenscheidt was more a protector than anything else, not one to go knocking people around.

"Whoever it is, he knows more than he should about some stuff, yeah. And some of the stuff that's happened, it's almost like it's a BUNCH of guys, at least a couple, your side and ours, all teamed up, but I'd've heard about something like that, and if I hadn't, Newkirk would have for sure. But just like whoever it is knows more than he should about SOME stuff, like about the kind of bottle I'd used for Hilda's perfume, and some other stuff, there's other things he's overlooking, or is looking at all wrong," Carter mused.

He wasn't about to discuss that note over the tunnel, a note NONE of the guys would ever have put there, no matter what the Colonal had thought when he'd gotten so mad; Carter pretty well trusted Langenscheidt for a lot of stuff, but he wasn't about to discuss that.

"And I can't think of any of the guys actually trying to hurt anyone else here in camp; we've got a pretty good crew here right now, on both sides. Looks like someone WANTS us at each other's throats, though."

They exchanged a slightly amused look at the first; somehow the bad apples DID tend to get transferred out pretty quickly, one way or another, and for the most part, everyone at Stalag 13 felt it made for an easier war if they WEREN'T constantly at each other's throats. So the Big Shots wouldn't approve of that attitude; the Big Shots, either side, weren't here very often.

Carter leaned back and thought. {"The perfume bottle, who would have seen that? Sure, it's just one of the spice bottles from the guards' mess kitchen, but for someone to use another just like it? The notes and stuff. And the tunnel entrance; we're real close-mouthed about that. What about all the other stuff. Who would know? Who could even guess?"}

Finally Carter looked over at Langenscheidt. "Okay, let me talk to Newkirk. I've got a couple of ideas." Actually he had one main idea, one so totally off-the-wall he knew there was only one person he could take it to, the one person who always listened to Andrew Carter. Complaining and bitching all the while, of course, but still listened.

 

**A New Player Enters The Game:**

  
Carter's quiet word to Newkirk had that worthy sputtering in sheer disbelief, then in sheer frustration at having been played for a mark, cursing in Cockney cant for several fascinating minutes, but soon the Englishman put his mind, then his magic fingers to work. Soon the evidence was in their hands. The question was, how to make the best use of it?

"Can't use the same con on this one, not with 'ochstetter probably involved. Let's see w'at we can come up with. The Colonel's gonna be 'aving dinner with the Kommandant and General Burkhalter tomorrow night; command performance, so to speak. Might be nice to 'ave some impartial witnesses, don't you think, Andrew?"

Carter had watched those blue-green eyes turn from worried to puzzled to angry and now deadly with intent. His own eyes held a grim appreciation for that transformation. He'd never taken Newkirk at face value, not like most people did. There was way more under the surface, lots of different stuff too, some of it stuff most people wouldn't even believe if Andrew tried to tell them. And while part of what lay under the surface might have turned some people off, for Andrew Carter it was quite the opposite. He LIKED what he saw, liked it a heck of a lot! Almost ALL of it! No, scrap the 'almost'!

And as for Newkirk, no, he had no intention of playing nice. LeBeau could have been badly hurt, maybe killed in that shed collapse. He had a liking for Hilda as well, and young Blumm, the German soldier who'd gotten a broken arm in that swinging door gag, he was pretty much a good kid, reminded Newkirk of one of the Brangle Street Lads back home. And from the looks of it, all that was just the beginning of a long trail maybe leading straight to the firing squad with a smirking Hochstetter giving the orders.

Slowly the plan came together, and Carter swallowed deeply at the sheer audacity of it all. Even for them, this was one heck of a deal.

"We gonna let the Colonel know? Beforehand, I mean?" Carter asked, remembering just how mad Hogan had been with them earlier.

Newkirk frowned, then shrugged, reluctantly. "Better, I guess. NOT knowing would make 'is reaction best, maybe, but with 'im, better not try to keep 'im in the dark. 'E's already got a mad on about not being able to trust us."

He refrained from saying just how much that hurt, but he knew Carter and the others felt the same.

"Yeah, and he might be able to spot anything we're overlooking," Carter said, though he had a feeling Newkirk wasn't overlooking much. He remembered a few of the Caeide stories, about how Newkirk planned things out so carefully, kept at it, working all the angles, every eventuality he could think of before starting a job.

{"Boy, that guy made a big mistake. The guys we all are when we're just being prisoners? Heck, that's just the tip of the iceberg as to what we all are! And the Newkirk HE'S seen, playing cards, making wise cracks, complaining about the food and the weather and everything, even if he overheard enough to figure Newkirk's part of Papa Bear's team? That's only a tiny little piece of Newkirk; now he's really pissed off, and he's gonna let loose with the real deal! It is NOT gonna be pretty!"}.

Then he thought further, and a wide grin came to his slightly narrow face. {"Pretty? Heck, it's gonna be beautiful!!!"}

Newkirk took a quick look at that grin and shuddered. {"No, I really do NOT want to know what 'e's thinking!"}

 

**Tallying Up The Score:**

  
General Burkhalter had arrived, scowling as usual, but the company of Fraulein Hilda along with a really excellent dinner prepared by LeBeau and served by Carter and Olsen had him smiling with contentment. He'd never admit it, but he was actually enjoying himself. Hogan was, among other things, a diverting conversationalist, and for once Klink had the good sense to just sit and smile and nod and keep his mouth shut.

They were just starting the dessert course when the yelling and shooting started, the sirens going off immediately thereafter, the floodlights lighting up the compound. General Burkhalter waited impatiently while Klink rang the gate, and listened with even greater annoyance as Klink stuttered, "but that is impossible! No one escapes from Stalag 13." His watery eyes snapped to the burly general standing there, revolver in hand, and the whine became a wail, "certainly not when General Burkhalter is here!!!" And then, a sound that probably didn't even have a name, followed by - "The GESTAPO????!!!"

The firing stopped, though the shouting continued, and Burkhalter and a reluctant Klink went out to investigate, Hogan keeping close behind.

None of them were in a position to see the figure concealed in the shadows of the motor pool, nor the other beside the guards' barracks, or the more hefty one by the truck near the west fence. As Burkhalter and Klink and Hogan came closer to where a body lay on the ground, surrounded by the men in black uniforms, one of those shadows tucked a pistol back in his trousers and drifted back toward the dog kennels, then was gone. The other two turned into an armed Corporal Langenscheidt and Sergeant Schultz, and they formed up behind Klink as if they'd always been there.

In the end, no one was even sure whose bullets had killed Private Joey Sanders (aka Gerhard Schneider, aka 'der Wiesel' - 'the weasel'), but the general consensus was that it had probably come from the gun of one of the Gestapo men who'd swarmed the camp in reaction to the call, supposedly FROM the operative informing Hochstetter's Aide of plans for a mass escape from Stalag 13. Although most of the guards had also fired their guns, even Schultz, Hochstetter seemed intent on claiming credit, at least til he saw who the dead man was. Then things changed.

The message from der Wiesel had asked for backup, outlined a plan, "the next to final step to achieving our goals", and Hochstetter had been right on the mark. The plan called for the shooting of any man seen approaching the west fence line, and the only man to do that had been the prisoner, Private Sanders.

Hochstetter ranted, of course, and in the course of his ranting thoroughly exposed Sanders as a German operative, assisting Hochstetter in yet another attempt to ferret out Papa Bear, "or shall we say, Colonel Hogan" Hochstetter snarled bitterly.

The accusations poured from the Gestapo major, that this was all another plot, a diabolical scheme to get rid of the agent who had discovered enough to destroy Hogan once and for all. His accusations that Hogan had somehow murdered Sanders, or at least set it up, was disputed not just by the annoyed disclaimers from Hogan, Klink and Burkhalter, but also by the notebook found in Sanders' pocket - the one with increasingly despairing, eventually morbid-leaning entries.

Burkhalter silently read through the journal, about the man's self-doubts, about his worry about being found out as a double-agent, about his fear Hochstetter had set up this last assignment as a way of entrapping him, his ever-deepening thoughts of death and eventually a deep longing for that final ending and a laying out of a mad scheme for 'suicide by Gestapo' that convinced Burkhalter.

Well, it SHOULD have convinced Burkhalter; that was some of Langenscheidt's finest story-telling and Newkirk's finest forgery work right there in that little notebook! It would be a shame for all that expertise to have fallen short of target!

Of course, Hochstetter was yelling, deciding, once again, that this was all Hogan's fault!

Hogan was stubbornly arguing with both German officers, "there has to be some mistake! I mean, Private Sanders? I hate to say this about one of our own, but he was as dumb as they come! Now you're telling me he's some hotshot German agent. No, you're telling me he's some hotshot DOUBLE agent, one that's fooled both sides for how long??? Come on, guys, give me a break! Do you think I'm stupid? I don't know what you have going on, but believe me the Red Cross is going to hear about Private Sanders being shot down . . ."

Burkhalter interrupted with considerable annoyance, throwing a warning look at Hochstetter to keep his mouth shut, "shot while trying to escape. That does happen, Hogan, at a prisoner-of-war camp, when you make such an attempt. So, you go ahead and make your report; you have that right. Obviously you are right about the rest as well; Private Sanders was just who he appeared, a rather stupid, rather hapless prisoner, nothing more, who had become delusional under the stress of war. That journal proves without a doubt he had lost his mind, become lost in his fantasies. When it became too much for him, he made the wrong move at the wrong time, and became a casualty of war. It is unfortunate, but it happens." That the entries were in German, which Sanders supposedly did not know, he made sure not to address. 

That notebook had disappeared into his side pocket, would possibly never reappear. "Major Hochstetter was obviously making some kind of a morbid joke, or not thinking things through clearly, both of which can be an unfortunate tendency with the Gestapo, in my experience. Kommandant, I think the pleasantries are over. Major Hochstetter and I will be leaving. Major, if you would be so kind as to follow me to my headquarters, I believe we have a few things to discuss."

There was something about the general's face, the tone in his voice that promised that would not be a pleasant discussion. No, Burkhalter wouldn't take kindly to the Gestapo runnning an undercover operation through a camp under his line of command, especially without his knowledge.

Meanwhile, Hochstetter was sweating, trying to figure out how he was going to explain this to Berlin. Perhaps going with that little notebook really was his best chance. No, he wasn't sure he believed it, still thought Hogan was probably involved, but being responsible for bringing in 'Der Wiesel' in the first place put him in a very tenuous position. Surely no one in that shadowy organization in Berlin would be pleased.

{"Unless we can convince them that the notebook is right, that he was a double agent, who was overcome by guilt and remorse and arranged his own death. I wonder if they would believe I somehow suspected him, laid a trap. Hmmm."}.

It was with some reluctance he abandoned that idea; no, that would just anger the Powers That Be even more, that he might have had suspicions but had not reported them immediately. {"Now, just where did that notebook go?"}

**Epilogue-A Toast to The Winners of the Games:**

  
Back in Barracks 2, Hogan had leaned against the doorframe to his quarters, staring at the bunk where Private Joey Sanders, or Gerhard Schneider, or 'the weasel', or whoever the hell he had been, had spent so many nights. While he was really relieved that it had all worked out, he was very uneasy on a few points. First, that Sanders had fooled him so easily. That put an uncomfortable dint in his self-confidence!

And, looking around the room of men so carefully NOT meeting his eye, that he'd suspected his guys of undermining the operation, maybe not on purpose but through negligence. Then, them being the ones to figure it out, come up with a plan to limit the damage. Yes, he had some apologies to hand out.

"Look, guys . . ." he started, only to see the slow smiles come to their faces. Yeah, they understood. It wasn't like Sanders hadn't had them going pretty good too for most of that time.

He turned, went into his quarters and pulled out a bottle of actually drinkable whiskey, and went back into the room where his team were gathered.

"Line up the glasses, guys. Let's have a drink to us."

And they did, and it was over, though Newkirk made a fervent promise to himself and everyone else there.

"I'll tell you one thing; the next bloke w'at comes through 'ere even more clumsy than Carter, we're shipping 'im right straight back out again!"

"Hey! That's not very nice!" Carter said, attempting a frown, though in his heart of hearts agreeing with the sentiment entirely. After all, he knew darned well HE was putting on an act; he should have gotten wise to that other guy right at the beginning! No one could be THAT much of a klutz! Carter himself really had to work at it and he was NATURALLY clumsy!

 

**Author's Note:**

> For an explanation for the operative's code name, look online for a picture of a weasel.


End file.
